


The Joy of Rediscovering You

by misslizanne



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslizanne/pseuds/misslizanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones never forgets the Swan girl from the music shop. Sheer coincidence brings them back together when he’s a budding rock star with a bad reputation, forced under the care and protection of Emma Swan, a bodyguard assigned to him by his publicist. Can he break his way through her steely walls and show her he’s the same stranger she met all those years ago?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been like this for years, swarms of young, wild girls clawing their way towards him as he exits his tour bus, adult women throwing all sorts of clothing at him while he’s performing on stage. He’s Killian Jones, one of the most prominent rock stars of this generation, some implant from the UK who has no problem using his celebrity status to his advantage.

The raunchy tabloid stories have increased in intensity since his rise to fame, and at twenty-nine years old, he seems to be going through some sort of quarter-life crisis, constantly drinking, getting into all sorts of trouble, even sexing up groupies after concerts (essentially, a meltdown that the media can’t seem to get enough of).

Lucky for Emma Swan, she’s the blissful idiot who gets to make sure incidents like those don’t happen, which is precisely why she’s trying to ward off the girls elbowing their way through the throng of people hovering near his dressing room.

It’s a while before she finally pushes Killian through the door and it closes with a loud thump. She sighs against it, hearing the clicks of cameras, the booming voices of Neal and Graham as they lead the crowd away. The noise outside makes her hyperaware that she’s alone with Killian, and he’s eyeing her like she’s some sort of prize, some groupie that would love to be locked in a room alone with a scruff-faced musician, especially one with raven black hair, lines of dark kohl bordering his mysterious cerulean gaze and an accent that would make any normal girl melt into a puddle at his feet.

“As your bodyguard, I have to ask,” Emma demands, trying to keep her cool as her voice rises, her brow furrowing in anger. “What the  _fuck_  were you thinking, tweeting the location of your dressing room?”

Killian saunters towards her, and if the past four months of this tour have taught her anything, that hooded gaze he’s directing her way, swirling with a desire that causes heat to pool low in her belly, means he’s up to no good. Before she can object, he’s shoving her up against the door, hands grazing her hips as he nips at her mouth, then her neck, then her collarbone.

“Maybe it was all a ploy to get you alone,” he murmurs before crashing his lips into hers.

She almost loses herself in the feeling of him pressed against her, his tight leather pants doing nothing to hide his growing arousal, and she moans lightly into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck before trailing down his chest.

It’s electric,  _familiar_ , as her tongue flicks at the faint taste of rum still lingering on his lips. It’s as if she can’t control her own impulses as her fingers clamor at his shirt, aiming to push it up his torso.

Finally, she comes to her senses when he pulls back for air. “No, we can’t,” she grumbles, trying to push him away.

He grinds his hips into hers, protesting her actions. “Why not, love?”

“ _Because_ ,” she commands, but he doesn’t seem to get it, so she knees him in the crotch, balling her hands into fists and propelling him backwards.

“You’re no fun, lass,” he groans, hands moving towards his lower half, wincing at the shooting pain that suddenly sobers him.

Emma smirks. “Don’t forget, buddy,” she taunts as he stumbles towards the couch in his dressing room. “I can kick your ass eight different ways.”

“Only eight, love?” he questions playfully, eyebrow arching in amusement at the random number she’s chosen.

Emma rolls her eyes, fingers grasping the door handle. “Drop it, Jones. We leave in ten minutes for New York.”

He watches her leave, the door closing with a thud as his head drops to his hands.  _Jones_ , he thinks.  _She called me Jones._

His fingers come up to touch his lips, mind still fixated on the feel of her mouth pressed against his. He should have known better though, considering it’s  _her_.

* * *

_He doesn’t think he knows much about music, just that he’s completely drawn to it, the way it flourishes and dips, crescendos and brightens, decrescendos and falls. In the chaos that is his life at nineteen years old, he’s grateful for the small music shop at the corner of Main and Englewood. He drops by there often enough, always perusing through the classic records of his father’s era, that he begins to wonder if people think he lives there._

_He nods at the owner as he walks in. “Hello, Mr. Gold,” he says with a polite smile as he makes his way to his usual spot, a small nook in the back of the shop where Gold has set up a record player and a pair of obtrusive headphones so he can listen in peace._

_“Good afternoon, Killian.” Gold waves back, a thin, fragile looking guy with shoulder length blonde hair and a Scottish accent that Killian finds somewhat comforting amongst the bustling madness that is America on the cusp of the new millennium._

_Killian thumbs through the racks of records, settling on_ Abbey Road _, nestling in between the racks and the wall. He closes his eyes and lets the music take him over, head bobbing along with the staccato lyrics and drum beats of_ Come Together.

_“Shit! Sorry!”_

_He hears the small squeak of a voice over the guitar licks of the interlude, and he jolts his eyes open to see a blonde woman with bright jade eyes lying over his spread out legs. He throws the headphones off, music still pulsing through them as he kneels over to help her up. “You alright there, lass?” he asks, thick British accent causing her eyes to widen in fascination._

_“Yeah, I’m fine,” she finally answers, picking herself up off the floor as he stands up, his hand still clutching her elbow as if he’s anchoring her to the floor. “Thanks,” she mutters, offering him a small yet touching smile as she walks away._

_(It’s only after she’s disappeared that he realizes he’s blushing.)_

* * *

She’s been staring out the bus window, mindlessly watching the headlights of oncoming traffic drift past. They’re a few hours outside of New York, trudging through the highways of Pennsylvania, following behind the main bus housing Killian and his band mates (and of course, Graham, because even in a moving vehicle at two in the morning, Killian can’t be trusted).

Her fingers drift towards the bracelet on her wrist, bulky brown leather inscribed with the saying “ _The biggest human temptation is to settle for too little.”_ The words are written in an outlandish script and the leather is beginning to fray at the edges, but it’s the only item she’s been able to save from her teenage years (and as an orphan, you learn pretty quickly sentimental things are rare).

Her fingertips trace over the indent of the words, and it seems to calm her down marginally following the irate phone call from Killian’s publicist. The trouble he’s gotten them all in is one thing, but the concern she feels for herself is even more of a shock, especially after that  _kiss_.

“So Jones tried to lay one on you?” Neal teases as he slips in next to her cozy corner of the tour bus, interrupting her train of thought.

Emma rolls her eyes, groaning at the fact that word has gotten around about her split second tryst with the musician. “Who told you?”

Neal chuckles, dimples shining at the corners of his mouth at the question. “You just did, sucker,” he joshes, fingers drumming on the armrest between them as his other hand rubs the bushy scruff on his jawline.

“Ugh, I hate you,” Emma groans, raising her hand with the intention of slapping him.

Neal laughs when she misses his head, throwing his arms up in defeat before she can get another swing in. “Look, Em, I only say this cause I care,” he begins, pausing when she raises an eyebrow.

She turns her gaze away, stares out at the highway moving past her window. “And not because of our...”

“History?” he adds, sighing as he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s got nothing to do with that.”

“Then what?” she presses, turning back to face him. “Is it Graham?”

“No, Em. Although Graham’s still completely love-struck over you,” Neal jokes, before his expression grows awfully serious. “That’s besides the point. I just don’t want you to get hurt by this asshole, that’s all.” His voice is lower than a murmur, eyes pleading with her the same way they did when she broke things off with him almost five years ago.

Her gaze darts to the front window, the red taillights of the main bus flickering against the glass. “You think I like Killian?” she grumbles, slouching back in the chair.

Neal shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think. I just know there’s something about the way he looks at you. I can’t explain it. It just reminds me of...”

“Of you?”

Neal nods, slightly unsure of himself. “Yeah, kind of. Look, he’s a musician, he drinks, he’s never up to any good. Hell, that’s exactly why we were hired. I can’t tell you what to do. If you plan on getting involved with him, by all means, it’s your life. But if you know what’s good for you...”

“I get it,” Emma interrupts.

Neal shuffles out of his seat, weakly smiling before leaving.

Neal’s words haunt her as he heads towards the bunks in the back of the bus. He’s right, Killian is no good for her. He’s a definitive bad boy, the exact type everyone warns you to stay away from. And yet, there’s something about Killian she can’t shake, the lasting feeling of his lips brushing against hers, his gaze residing in her thoughts as if it had already taken up residence.

* * *

_Killian can’t get her out of his mind, the soft blonde curls hugging her face, warm smile haunting his dreams. God, who was she? He never encountered her in the shop before, nor had he run into her around town. To say she captivated him was an understatement: he was absolutely obsessed with her and he didn’t even know her, hadn’t even spoken to her beyond the polite pleasantries of the other day._

_“Gold, can I ask you a question?” he says with a slight tap on the counter as Gold pops up from underneath with a stack of albums in his hand._

_“Of course, dear lad,” Gold responds, placing the albums on the counter, silently nodding for Killian to lead them as they head towards the record room in the back._

_Killian watches Gold place the albums down next to the turntables. “There was someone in here the other day,” he mumbles, shoving one hand in his pocket while the other scratches behind his ear. “Someone new. A... a girl.”_

_“Ah, yes,_ her _,” Gold reacts, patting the baby-faced lad on shoulder. “That’s the Swan girl. She’s helping me out here and there, picking up a few hours so I can have some time off with the wife.”_

_Killian shuffles nervously, biting his bottom lip before sighing. “Oh... well, when does she work?” he tries to ask casually, but the words come out more hesitant then he would like._

_Gold grins, well aware of why he’s asking. “The beautiful maiden in question works Friday and Saturday nights. She usually closes.”_

_Killian can’t help the beaming smile from forming on his lips. “Much appreciated, mate.”_

_Gold chuckles as he taps his chin in contemplation. “Come to think of it, I think she’ll be in tomorrow afternoon, if you want to swing by.” He pats Killian on the back before walking towards the storage room._

_Killian tries to settle down as he places a record on the turntable, but he honestly can’t pay any attention to the music as her face forms in his memory, warm smile shining in his mind against the roar of Lynyrd Skynyrd in his headphones._

* * *

“That was some stunt you pulled tonight,” Graham mentions as he slides into the booth where Killian’s been sitting all night, nursing his flask of whiskey. “Could have gotten all three of us in a load of trouble.”

Killian shrugs his shoulders indifferently. “Oh, get over it.”

Graham grabs Killian’s wrist, forcing him to listen. “No, I won’t. Especially since you practically barricaded yourself in there with Emma.”

“Mate, that’s none of your business,” Killian snarls, teeth clenching hard.

“I am not your  _mate_ , Jones,” Graham responds, fingers gripping tighter around Killian’s wrist. “And when it concerns, Emma, it  _is_ my business.”

Killian raises both eyebrows, wriggling his hand out of Graham’s grasp. “Are you in  _love_  with her?” Killian asks mockingly, scathing pout forming on his lips.

The tone of his voice sets Graham off. “Maybe I fucking am!” Graham bellows, banging hard on the table before swatting the flask out of Killian’s hand, spilling the alcohol all over the bus floor. “So you’d better keep your filthy hands off her. Got it, you blasted arse?”

“Oh, bugger off, you lousy fuck!” Killian leaves the booth with a grunt of frustration, marching to the back of the bus where his bedroom is, slamming the door hard before Graham has a chance to get in another word.

* * *

_Killian makes sure to keep his entire afternoon free, anxiously anticipating his trip to the music shop. There’s a mystery about this Swan girl, like she’s hiding something that he surely wants to discover. He always liked a challenge, always took the harder, more trying route rather than the easier one. She would be no different._

_He walks into the shop, nodding politely in Gold’s direction before heading to his corner, placing the record of Queen’s_ A Day at the Races  _on the turntable, electing to start on side two. He sighs as Freddie Mercury’s voice rings through the headphones on the beginning of_ Somebody to Love _._

 _He keeps his eyes open, scanning the shop for any sign of the Swan girl, and when she walks out from the storage room, almost tripping on something in her path, he exhales a chuckle at how absolutely clumsy (and_ adorable _) she is._

_She darts her attention towards him, bright green eyes scrutinizing him, the slight wrinkle of her brow displaying her distaste. He realizes his laugh must have been loud enough for her to hear, but before he can say anything, she walks away, the apology caught in his throat as her long blonde curls bounce against her back on her path to the counter._

_He watches as she places a box of straps on the counter and hangs them on the display shelf, meticulously positioning each one in some color-coded fashion she must have come up with (because after a few months of getting to know Gold, and the state of this record room before he took up residence, he knows any recent organization must have been her doing)._

_She turns around, glancing at the clock and gasping at the time, gathering her things quickly and giving Gold an endearing hug before bolting out the door._

_(If he drools over her as she saunters out of the shop while Freddie Mercury chants the words ‘_ find me somebody to love _,’ that’s something he’ll never admit.)_

* * *

“Emma, love?”

She hears it as she’s pacing the concrete hallway of Madison Square Garden, her headset picking up Graham rambling on about security at the entrance gates and the stage, Neal answering that he’s handling a group of drunken women outside the arena bathrooms. Typical New York metropolitan area issues, considering this is probably the largest venue Killian will perform at all tour.

She turns to see Killian, clad in those leather pants he insists on wearing, along with a dangerously low cotton shirt that shows just enough chest hair to make any girl’s eyes wander. She notices the signature kohl around his eyes that always makes him look like an actual sex god, but the way his bright blue eyes widen at the sight of her makes her wonder how much of his persona is authentically _him_.

“Ugh, you,” Emma whines, placing a hand in front of him, halting him from moving any closer. “If you’ve come to make out with me again...”

“I’ve actually come to apologize,” Killian mumbles, grimacing as he closes his eyes. “I shouldn’t have kissed you, love. I was drunk and...”

“Yeah, you were,” Emma interjects, remembering how she could taste the rum on his lips (and the fact that it passed her mind was something she didn’t want to deal with now... or _ever_ ). “Do you know the crap I had to take from your publicist about it? She could have fired all three of us.”

“Emma, I know. I’m sorry,” he pleads, taking her hand in his and cradling it close to his chest. “Truly sorry. I assure you it won’t happen again.”

She swallows hard, breath catching in her throat as his thumb brushes gentle circles over her skin. “Because you want to avoid another knee to the crotch?” she taunts, cocking her head towards his lower half and chuckling breathlessly.

He lets go of her hand, running his fingers through his unkempt black hair. “No, because those two goons you associate with...” He gestures to her headset, a disgusted frown forming on his lips as he hears the raspy hum of their chatter echo from her earpiece. “Well, they’ll beat the living shit out of me if I do anything to hurt you.”

She thinks of the two aforementioned men who are way too concerned with her well-being to be normal co-workers (and they should know by now she can take care of herself, but she can’t help but wonder if they’re both simultaneously heading in her direction, set on a chivalrous rescue from the mischievous musician in front of her).

She nods her head. “Yeah, they will. Wouldn’t want to bruise your pretty face.”

Killian chuckles, and the sound is warm and sweet and so goddamn familiar, a rush of something, dare she say it, _electric_ , pulsing through her as he views her like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

_Killian walks into the shop around nine that Friday, pressing over the plaid button down he elected to wear. He doesn’t see anyone at the counter, and as his eyes peruse the shop, he doesn’t take notice of Gold or the Swan girl._

_He shrugs, figuring she isn’t here, that Gold’s hiding somewhere in the back, probably humming some Bob Dylan tune. He heads to his usual spot, setting his backpack down as he prepares to trudge through that Bon Jovi album_ New Jersey, _the one_   _Gold keeps harping on him to listen to._

_“Who are you anyway?” he hears from behind him, and he swiftly turns around to see her, the Swan girl, hands perched on her hips as she eyes him up from the other side of the dusty racks. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail behind her head, thin brown frames outlining her eyes, donning a striped knit dress covered up by a denim jacket._

_“Name’s Jones.” He offers her a hand, and she shakes it. He feels that same electric pulse from their first accidental meeting, and it shoots through his veins like magic. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”_

_“That’s fine. I just... I never get anyone in here this late,” she responds, pushing the eyeglasses up against the bridge of her nose. “You can call me Swan.”_

_“Just Swan?” he presses, eyes raking over her._

_She simply nods. “Better to not give a stranger my first name. Don’t want you to get attached, record boy.”_

_“Record boy?!” He leans back on the rack behind him, arms folded over his chest, spirited smirk quirking at the corners of his lips when she nods playfully at the insult. “Fine,_ Swan _, what’s a lass like you doing in a music shop on a Friday night? Shouldn’t you be out somewhere partying?”_

_She rolls her eyes, waltzing away from him as she attempts to tidy up the sheet music left stranded by the demo instruments. “Well,_ Jones _,” she responds, imitating his tone. “I’m an eighteen year old high school senior who’s got too much studying to even think about parties.” She pushes past him as she makes a dash for the counter. “And you?”_

_“What about me?” he asks, following her as she walks behind the counter, organizing reeds and valve oil on the shelves._

_“What’s a guy like you doing here?” She stares at his clean-shaven face, bright green eyes examining him while she patiently awaits his answer._

_He scratches the hair at the nape of his neck, elbow leaning down against the counter. “Nineteen year old who didn’t go to college. Don’t really have a lot of friends, so coming here gives me something to do to pass the time. I assumed Gold would have mentioned me.”_

_“Of course he did, record boy,” she jokes, gesturing towards the station set up in his spot._

_He blushes as his gaze follows the direction of her hand, then looks back. “Again with the record boy.”_

_“Well, Gold made a big deal about it. Said I can touch everything_ except _that record player.” She pokes at his chest on the word ‘except.’_

_“Aye, I suppose I’m famous now?” he jests, and any tension in his face is washed away when she giggles (the sound is literally like music to his ears)._

_“Famous as record boy,” she responds, waltzing out from behind the counter, trailing past him._

_He grabs her wrist, and she glances down quickly before meeting his stare, wide eyes filled with confusion. “Just call me Jones, love.”_

_“I think record boy suits you rather well,” she taunts, satisfied grin on her lips. “Besides, you won’t leave ‘til I change my mind, and I could use the help in the back.”_

_He chuckles, nodding his head as he tags along with her towards the storage room._

* * *

Killian sets himself upon the stool at the front of the stage, acoustic guitar slung around his shoulder. “Any Fleetwood Mac fans in here?”

There’s a round of cheers filling the arena, and Emma can hear it echo into the small room she, Neal and Graham are hanging in backstage.

“Hope you guys like this one,” he adds before his fingers begin the guitar lick of _Never Going Back Again_.

Emma’s ears perk up, head darting towards the television that’s broadcasting the concert for them. He’s never done a song like this, let alone something this acoustic, open and free. It’s odd to see him so _vulnerable_ as he sings through the words, fingers nimbly strumming through the guitar riffs alongside two of his band mates.

“This is new,” Neal mentions as he nods towards the screen when Killian begins to chant the words.

_She broke down and let me in_   
_Made me see where I've been_   
_Been down one time, been down two times_   
_I'm never going back again_

The words seem so genuine coming from his lips, and she finally thinks she’s seeing the real Killian Jones, not the playboy musician who seems to fuck up everything in his wake. This seems like the man underneath the persona, behind the low-cut shirts, the eyeliner and leather pants, the alcohol and the girls. He seems so much younger all of a sudden, almost _familiar_ as she watches his fingers deftly pluck the strings.

He closes his eyes as he plays through the musical interlude, strumming along as his head bobs along. It’s as if he’s one with it, mind and body part of the music as he tilts back towards the microphone, humming lightly before beginning the second verse.

_You don't know what it means to win_   
_Come down and see me again_   
_Been down one time, been down two times_   
_I'm never going back again_

“Emma, you alright?” she hears Graham ask, and she startles out of her daze, turning to her left to see the dusty blonde staring at her with a look of complete and utter worry.

“I’m fine, he just...” she begins, sentence trailing off as Killian weakly smiles, bright blue eyes evident on the screen broadcasting him into their room. He waves to the audience before beginning a roaring version of his latest hit. “He seems different.”

Graham shakes his head. “He’s still the same prick, Emma. Now, he’s just a prick with feelings.”

Emma smiles weakly before walking away from Graham’s obvious disgust at her statement, struggling to get the image of Killian, the _real_ Killian, out of her mind.

* * *

_He’s come in a few more times during her shifts, always perusing through the old records in the back of the shop, thumbing through old rock music nobody ever bothers to look at. She offers him small talk and a genuine grin that makes him weak in the knees, and he always returns the favor by listening to her beyond ridiculous complaints about school, nodding along, even helping her study for an upcoming chemistry test._

_But tonight there’s a humming sound coming from the opposite corner of the shop, and she realizes rather quickly that it’s half past ten and he’s still here, one of the display guitars slung around his shoulder, fingers nimbly plucking the strings, playing some Fleetwood Mac song she can’t help but recognize._

_"I was supposed to kick you out at nine," she interrupts him, leaning on the wall nearest him._

_Killian turns around abruptly as he removes the guitar from his shoulder, placing it down alongside the other instruments on display. “You don’t have the heart.”_

_“You’re right, I’m too soft on you,” she answers mockingly before taking a moment to stare at the man in front of her, smooth face with just the hint of a five o’clock shadow, crisp blue eyes that light up at the sight of her. “You’re pretty good, you know.”_

_He stills under her gaze, then shakes his head in disagreement. “I’m rather average. There’s other mates who play better than I,” he rambles on, before a warm smile escapes his lips._

_She reaches her hand out to grasp his shoulder, his breath hitching at the simple electricity he feels within her grasp. “Well, I’ve been listening to you hack at it for the past half hour. It’s not half bad, although it’s nowhere near the original.”_

_“I’m sorry, love?” he quickly responds, smile turning into a full-on smirk._

_“Follow me, record boy.” She walks towards the infamous record player in the back, hooking up the correct cords before she sets the record on the turntable, carefully placing the needle in place. The sound of guitar, bass and drums begins to pulse through the speakers._

_“I love this album,” she states, hips beginning to sway along to the beat. “_ This _is what it’s supposed to sound like.”_

_“Thanks for busting my ego, love.” He slides up beside her, arms brushing softly against one another._

_“You’re very welcome,” she quips, hips still swinging from side-to-side, the album cover to_ Rumours _held tightly in both of her hands. “You can go your waaaaaay,” she sings, closing her eyes as she continues moving to the music._

_“Favorite song?” he asks over a chuckle, taking the cover out of her hands and pulling her flush to his body._

_“Favorite album,” she whispers, realizing how close this almost-stranger is to her._

_“Do you always dance alone?” he asks her with a crooked smile._

_She laughs breathlessly (and god be damned, but he blushes like a complete fool). “Most of the time...”_

_“Swan, a lady should never dance alone.” He taps her nose playfully before linking her hand with his, other hand hovering over the small of her back. "It's bad form."_

_He begins waltzing them around the small shop, avoiding the racks of records, twirling her around the shelves. She's giggling like a child as they make their way to the counter._ _He props her up on it and she jumps along to the sound of the guitar interlude before leaping to the end of it, turning around to fall effortlessly into his arms. He catches her, letting her link her arms around his neck as he spins her around before placing her gently on the floor._

_Her arms are still joined around him, her fingers toying with the soft hair behind his ears as they both sway. He lets his hands wander down her back, settling just below her backside. She’s so close she can feel the way his heart is hammering in his chest, the smell of spice that overwhelms her senses, the tingle of his warm breath on her skin._

_He leans in, tilting his head in for a kiss when she lifts a finger to his lips._

_“We really shouldn’t,” she whispers, untangling herself from his grasp._

_He stands still, dumbfounded by the obvious change of pace, still overwhelmed by her previous proximity._

* * *

The concert ends with Killian’s usual encore, a rocked out version of _Sweet Child of Mine_ , and the arena shuffles out without incident. Emma’s grateful for that, and the night rolls on quieter than usual as she heads into the hotel neighboring the arena, intent on getting into a warm bed and dozing off as soon as humanly possible.

She never imagined in her youth that she’d be touring with a rock star, pressed with the job of ensuring his safety, but that _is_ her life, and this is her job, and any dream she had for a future is completely washed away by the fact that this pays the bills.

She heads towards the elevator, startled by her phone buzzing in her back pocket.

**_You still up, love?_ **

She looks at the name: Killian. She’s curious as to whether or not he’s looking for a romp in the sack or something has gone terribly wrong. He's really only supposed to contact them in emergencies.

_Yeah, why? You in trouble?_

She pauses a moment in the hotel lobby, leaning against the wall as she waits for the elevator.

**_The band’s going to some club in Manhattan and I just don’t want to. Can you acquire some provisions for my room, or does that not meet the approval of you and the goons?_ **

She sighs, before slumping against the wall, chuckling at the way he deliberately makes fun of her colleagues, the ex-lover _and_ the doe-eyed smitten one.

_Don’t you have stuff up there?_

**_If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you..._ **

_I’m not your servant..._

She can sense the chuckle he’ll let out at the sass behind her text, and her phone buzzes not soon after.

**_But you are my bodyguard. And I only insulted the goons, not you, love._ **

Again with the love thing. She finds herself smiling though, almost blushing at the way it reads off her screen.

_I’ll get the bartender to lend us a bottle of Captain_ , she types, hesitating before adding a feisty ending. _Don’t get any ideas._

A second later, her phone buzzes.

**_Wouldn’t dream of it. Meet you in five._ **

It’s only as she’s heading down the hallway to his suite on the top floor that she realizes she referred to them as _us_.

* * *

_Killian enters the shop late that night, his new job at a restaurant in town causing him to forego his nightly rendezvous with the Swan girl. He walks in, hearing the soft lull of guitar, soft flutes accompanying not soon after. He quickly realizes she’s here alone listening to Led Zeppelin as she tidies up the shop and prepares to close._

_“Didn’t take you for a folk rock sort of lass,” he interrupts and she startles, turning around defensively before realizing it’s just him._

_“I asked Gold what you usually listen to,” she answers, gesturing towards the record room. “I settled on this after about three hours worth of cookie-cutter rock albums.”_

_“Ah, well Gold is a man of simplicity and repetitive chord progressions,” he chuckles, warm grin growing on his face. “Can’t appreciate the beauty that is_ Stairway to Heaven _.”_

_He waves his hands upon reciting the title and Emma blushes just a little at the way his mouth quirks, eyes smiling along with his lips._

_“Anyway, I’ve gotta close soon if you were planning on—”_

_“I just wanted to come by and say goodnight, Swan,” Killian quickly answers, scratching behind his ear. He continues to make his way towards her, closing the gap between them. “You know, my father used to sing this to me when I was a young lad.”_

_“Yeah?” Her hand creeps towards his, interlocking their fingers together._

_He leans into her, and the faint of smell of rum wafts off his breath. “Aye, used to play guitar and sing it to my brother and I.”_

_“Oh,” she quietly answers, darting her attention between his eyes and lips. “And now?”_

_“My father and brother both passed, years ago,” he responds, the hurt in his eyes flashing for a moment before disappearing within the deep blue of his irises._

_She lets her other hand trail up his arm, tracing idle circles on his skin. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She lets her fingers trail up towards his bicep, curling under the hem of the fabric covering it. “Is that the reason you listen to this music?”_

_“Somewhat,” he murmurs. “At first it helped with the grief. But then I realized I sort of want to be a musician someday. Write songs, perform sold-out concerts. Offer people the same thing that music offers me.” He shuffles slightly, brow furrowing at the statement. “Forget it, that sounds absolutely senseless now that I hear it out loud.”_

_“No, it doesn’t,” she assures him, leaning her forehead against his, his head tilting ever so slightly to reach her lips._

_“What’s your dream?” he asks, breath washing coolly over her face._

_She sighs, melting into him as his other hand trails along her hip. “To have a family, to be cared for, to create a future with someone.”_

_“Those dreams are quite simple, love,” he whispers as he backs them up towards the counter._

_“But I still want them.” Her eyes dart towards her wrist, bringing the hand still entwined with hers down to trace along the inscription on the leather bracelet hugging her skin. “The biggest human temptation is to settle for too little.”_

_“That’s quite a sentiment, Swan,” he mumbles, his free hand lifting her chin up slowly to meet his gaze, and he feels the courage to tell her everything he’s ever thought about her. “I think I’m falling for you.”_

_She quietly gasps at his admission, shaking her head in disbelief. “No, you can’t be. You barely know me. I haven’t even given you my first name.”_

_“And yet, I think I’m falling nonetheless.” He moves his hand from her chin towards her cheek, cupping it to clear away the tears that have begun to slip from her glossy stare._

_She closes her eyes, leans into his touch. “Nobody ever loves me.”_

_“Not true, Swan.”_

_His lips brush across hers gently and before she knows it, he’s picking her up and placing her on the counter, her legs spreading naturally around him as he pulls her further into him, mouth dancing with hers, attempting to taste every part of her as the rock music echoes through the speakers._


	3. Chapter 3

She knocks three times on the door, shuffling anxiously as she holds the bottle of rum close to her chest.

“Emma!” he proclaims as the door to his hotel suite swings open.

She pushes past him, setting the bottle down on the nearest surface. “Here’s your booze, Killian. Don’t get too drunk. And try not to trash the room, if you can help it.” She makes a dash for the door, knowing it’s imperative she leave quickly, lest he get any ideas but he grabs her by the elbow, the electric touch pulsing through her skin (and it could just be the swig of rum she took in the elevator but part of her wants to think it’s just _him_ ).

“You said _us_ , love _.”_

“I didn’t mean...” she whines, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

He retrieves the phone from his ridiculously tight leather trousers and scrolls through a few screens until he’s holding up their conversation for her to see. “I got the bartender to lend _us_ —”

“I know what I wrote,” she huffs, gaze fixated on the satisfied smirk growing on his lips.

“Then why deny it?” he demands, slight snarl in his tone before he lets go of her elbow, swaggering off into the suite.

She feels stupid, almost immature trailing behind him, the badass bodyguard that she is suddenly very alone in a hotel suite with the world’s most provocative musician. Thoughts of dirty words and rough contact flash through her mind before she falls back to her senses, studying him as he meticulously pours a shot or two of rum into each glass.

He walks back in her direction, two tumblers in hand, gesturing for her to sit on the couch facing the large windows overlooking the sparkling New York City skyline. “Cheers, love,” he articulates as he hands her a glass, clinking them together in a mock toast.

“Cheers,” she mumbles as she chugs the amber liquid, letting it slide comfortably down her throat, sighing at the slight jolt it adds to her senses.

“So, tell me,” he begins as he scrolls through his iPod, settling on a Journey album she can't help but hum along to. “How does a lass like you end up a bodyguard?”

“Are you saying I can’t be?” she quips, noticing how the alcohol adds a sharp edge to her words.

He shakes his head, chuckling breathlessly as he downs his whiskey, pouring another round in both her glass and his own before plopping down on the couch next to her. “Just wondering how a lovely maiden such as yourself ends up protecting a fuck-up like me.”

She rolls her eyes at his use of vocabulary (maiden, _really_?). “Needed a job. This fit the bill... at the time.”

“At the time? I suppose this wasn’t your lifelong dream?” He flashes her a sardonic grin before sipping on his drink.

She pauses for a moment, liquid sloshing in her glass as she contemplates what he’s asking her, and how much she really wants to dole out to someone she feels like she barely knows.

(And yet, there’s some sort of comfort in his blue eyes, as if she’s told this tale before and her mind struggles with the notion that maybe he isn’t so bad after all, maybe all of this is a rouse and he's really just as sweet as her heart wants her to believe.)

“Wanted to go to college, eventually attend law school,” she finally answers and his eyes soften as she continues. “But when I was eighteen, they moved me again.”

“Who’s _they_ , love?”

“Child services officer.”

He quirks an eyebrow, obviously still very confused.

“Foster care,” she explains. “I was... Well, I still am an orphan. Nobody loves poor, little Emma.” She says it sarcastically, gulping down yet another two shots worth of whiskey.

“I’m sorry, love,” he mumbles, finger scratching the back of his neck nervously as he stares blankly into his drink.

“What about you?” she interrupts their silence, and he lets the question hang for a moment before he looks up, eyes wide and full of some sort of emotion she can’t quite place.

“What about me?” He fiddles with the hem on his shirt, pretending like her question wasn’t left unanswered.

“Well,” she presses, placing the glass down and inching towards his side of the couch. “Why does one become a _rock star_?” She flails her hand on the final words in a flamboyant gesture.

He chuckles, years suddenly erased from his expression. “Trust me, love. It’s not that interesting.” He shakes his head, waving his hand at her in an attempt to ward off her advancement towards him, but she ignores it.

“Oh, come on. There had to be some reason you became a musician,” she taunts, poking lightly at his bicep. “Unless it was just for sex, alcohol and money.”

He laughs again, and it sounds absolutely marvelous against the buzzed tingle swirling through her veins. “I became a musician for the same reason the old greats did. To offer people the same thing that music offers me.”

“And what’s that?” she murmurs, hand traveling towards him.

His breath hitches as her fingers sneak towards the inside of his thigh. “An escape.”

She cocks her head to the side, inaudibly searching for the meaning behind his words.

“My father and brother both died, quite tragically,” he begins to explain, pouring another shot of rum and chugging it.

“I’m sorry, Killian.” She inches her hand towards his, tracing over the top, waiting for him to intertwine their fingers together, and when he does, she squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Is that why you became a musician? To honor them?”

He shakes his head. “Sort of. There’s another reason.” He looks at her, and there’s a certain reverence behind his gaze, as if he’s looking at her for the millionth time. “Someone once told me something that stuck with me all these years.”

“And what’s that?”

He lets his hand untangle from hers, tracing the leather bracelet around her wrist. “The biggest human temptation is to settle for too little.”

“You just read that off my bracelet,” she jests, swatting at his chest and practically missing (and oh god, when did she get so drunk?)

“No, that’s what the _someone_ told me.”

She stares at him for a long moment, eyes searching his face, the worn wrinkles around his eyes, the scruff outlining his jaw, the crooked smile. It all suddenly makes sense as the soft hum of _Faithfully_ begins to echo through the speakers, why he seems so familiar, why she can’t help but sense the electric pull towards him every time they’re alone.

“It’s _you_ ,” she gasps, and suddenly she’s moving back on the couch, legs curling up under her as all the memories come flooding back alongside all the things she never got to tell him, the moments they never got to share because they moved her. He was falling for her and she lost him, without even so much as a chance to find him again, and yet, here he is, ten years later, sitting in front of her, with leather pants and kohl around his eyes and dark scruff outlining his jaw, but with the same warm smile she understood so well.

It’s him. It’s _Jones_.

* * *

_It’s been a few hectic weeks, and Killian’s trips to the shop have grown less frequent with his hours increasing at the restaurant and when he walks into the shop that evening, he’s stunned by the presence of Gold behind the counter. It is Friday, after all._

_“Gold?” he asks, expression wrought with confusion. “Where’s uh... where’s Swan?” he tries to act like it doesn’t bother him that the blonde haired woman who’s been haunting his dreams every night isn’t affecting him this much._

_“Ah, well, I’m assuming the dearie up and quit,” Gold explains, leaning on the counter. "Hasn't been in here in weeks."_

_Killian rubs his chin, biting his bottom lip. “Just gone?” he presses, trying to make sense of the situation. “Do you know where she went?”_

_Gold shakes his head. “Sorry, lad.” He walks around the counter, grasping Killian’s shoulder and giving it an encouraging squeeze. “She didn’t leave any contact information for where she’s going. Didn’t even say goodbye.”_

_Killian nods in thanks as he abruptly leaves the shop._

* * *

Killian senses her apprehension, his soft expression molding into one of pure concern. “Look, Emma, I can explain—”

“How long have you known?” she interrupts, face stern as she demands an answer.

He closes his eyes and sighs, bringing his thumb up to scratch the niche next to his nose. “Since you were hired, love.” He opens his eyes, and there’s a sense of pleading behind his stare that’s quickly washed away by an impish glint. “Swan isn’t exactly an inconspicuous surname.”

She tucks her knees into her chest. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t want to startle you or scare you,” she hears him respond, but it’s lost amongst the haze of her memories.

She shuts her eyelids tightly, remembering the dusty old music shop, the clean-shaven Jones who used to come in and bother her, listening to old records like it was his occupation in life. She recalls the stolen glances, right from the first moment she laid eyes on him, when her clumsy self tripped over him in the record room and his bright blue gaze cared about her well-being. She can practically see the crooked smile of a young boy asking her to dance, twirling her around the shop to Fleetwood Mac (even though she believed he secretly couldn’t stand the album) and then the sound of his lilting voice as she closed up shop, telling her of his dreams and aspirations, of the things he wanted out of life and all that he’d lost, of his feelings for her.

Ten years, and yet everything should have been clear the day she met him again, shaking his hand at a meeting with his publicist, going over the list of rules for the tour, even assigning the man a blasted curfew. She should have noticed his constant staring was more than just a musician looking for a quickie, but rather a man remembering someone he ~~loved~~ cared for in his youth ( _it can’t be love,_ she has to repeat to herself).

He moves closer to her, fingers trailing along her palm as she finally opens her eyes and everything fits into place when she pounces him, straddling his hips and diving in for a searing kiss. He responds with just as much force, hand gripping the back of her head, tangling through her golden strands.

He slides his tongue across her lips before he slips it past, diving into her mouth. She grinds her hips down hard, a soft mewl escaping her throat as her hands track under the thin shirt covering his torso, her fingers running across the scratchy hair of his chest. His hands wander up her back, electric touches that he’s thought about for far too many years, and far too many songs.

She releases her hands from under his shirt, tugging her own over her head and tossing it carelessly behind her, haphazardly pulling his off as the music pulsates throughout the suite, loud and clear, reminding her of a young boy propping her up on a counter, pouring all the care he had for her, a mere _stranger_ in the span of his life, into one heated kiss.

He reaches for the clasp of her bra, undoing it in a skillful motion, tugging on her bottom lip before trailing down her neck, following the soft curve of her breasts, suckling one into his mouth. She arches into him, moaning when his teeth clamp down on her nipple.

“Do you know how many songs I’ve written about you, Swan?” he purrs against her skin as her fingers trace the lines of his toned arm muscles. 

“How many?” she exhales as she grinds her hips against his growing erection, the tight leather doing nothing to hide it.

“Every single one, love,” he croons, lifting her off his lap and wrapping her legs around his hips, caressing her bare torso with gentle touches, a complete contrast to the rough blow of the wall against her back. “Gods, you’re just as beautiful as I dreamed you would be.”

“You dreamed about this?” she asks breathlessly as her feet touch the floor, and the simple nod against her stomach makes her heart flutter. He places light kisses there, shuffling the jeans down her legs.

“Of course, I did,” he responds, placing a kiss near the skin closest to her underwear, sending a shiver down her spine. “You disappeared, so _dreams_ were all I had left.”

He peers up at her, a voracious grin escaping his lips as he tears the lace away from her skin, fingers finding the slick heat between her thighs, placing open-mouthed kisses on every inch except where she needs him most. She reaches down, tugs at his hair, willing him to just have her already, and when he whispers her name in a raspy tone, it practically vibrates against the sensitive flesh.

He plunges a tongue in between her folds, and she curves against the wall, guiding him as he slides his tongue further into her, lapping up everything she has to offer. His finger thrusts in alongside his tongue, and the soft whimper that purrs from her lips makes him grin against her core, feeling the recognizable clench of her walls, her fingers tugging harshly on his raven black hair.

He stands back, undoing the laces on his leather pants, jostling them quickly off his legs. He turns her around, pinning her against the wall, hands entwining with hers above her head as he lines himself up against her entrance. “Gods, Emma,” he purrs as she sways her hips backwards, welcoming the friction against her already sensitive heat. “It took every ounce of decency and good form to not lean you over that bloody counter and press myself into you.”

“I imagine I would have liked that, Jones,” she jokes, and the sound of his surname, sweet syllables rolling off her tongue, as if they were teenagers again, spurs him on. He thrusts into her, her body arching against his bare chest, her hips rolling back as he lets her adjust to the size of him.

“Killian,” she whimpers, head falling against his shoulder. “You feel good.”

“You like that?” he whispers against her back, placing delicate kisses across the skin there, nose nuzzling between her shoulder blades before he pulls out and rams back into her, evoking a sharp cry from her lips.

“F-Fuck, _yes_ ,” she barely stammers, feeling the thickness of him against her tight walls, the way he’s reaching a deeper spot each and every time he drives into her. 

He grunts hard and raspy into her ear, warm breath ghosting over her neck as he sucks on her pulse point, hard enough to leave a bruise she’ll have to explain in the morning. She can’t seem to care as she feels herself flutter around him against the sound of eloquent lyrics and slow rock beats.

His movements remain surprisingly fluid as she rocks her hips into his, his hand releasing its hold on one of hers, pulling her flush against his firm body, rubbing a nipple between his thumb and fore finger, massaging circles that contrast the brutal drive of his hips. She turns her head around, seizing his lips in a heated kiss, tongue swooping in to stroke against his, teeth clacking while she throbs around him, electric pleasure seeping through her body as he captures the loud cry that escapes her lips.

The subsequent moans she emits causes him to fall over the edge, his teeth biting down hard on her bottom lip, puncturing just enough to make it bleed as he throbs inside of her, the music dying down as they collapse, tangled in one another's embrace against the wall.

* * *

_Trips to the music shop just plain stop after he knows she’s gone, but eventually he heads back, considering the thought of her is still haunting his mind. He nestles into his usual corner to listen to that Fleetwood Mac album she loved so much._

_It’s then that he fishes through his backpack, taking out the journal he jots down poems and such in. His pen shakes as the words begin to flow out of him—words of want and need, descriptions of her jade eyes, her golden curls, her soft smile. They never stop, and the words feel like they go on for an eternity before he’s shaking from the action, the album on the turntable nearing its end as he holds the incomprehensible handwriting out in front of him._

_He shoves the journal in his backpack, taking the headphones off and removing the record, attempting to place it back in its slip cover when he notices a small piece of legal paper stuffed in there._

Jones—

If you’re reading this, then I’m probably gone. I had a feeling this would happen. It always happens. They always move me right when I feel comfortable, when I feel at home. It’s just the nature of my life, which is exactly why I didn’t want either of us to get attached.

You’re going to be a great musician and I hope someday I’ll see you up on stage. Just remember, record boy: the biggest human temptation is to settle for too little :)

—Your Swan Girl

_It’s then that he decides, if anything, he’ll become a musician... if only to find her._


	4. Chapter 4

Emma awakes with a burning sensation that aches through her muscles. It’s the _good_ kind, though, the one that makes your toes curl and causes warm heat to flow through your veins at the simple thought of it. She peeks one eye open to view the scruffy musician lying next to her, chuckling when he emits an endearing snore, his arms wrapping around the hotel pillow, his hand tightly clasped within hers.

After their dalliance against the wall, he scooped her up, carrying her towards his bed, where lost years were made up for with endless hours of passion and pleasure and _I missed you_ and _please don’t let me lose you again_ and _I can’t believe you found me_ and _don’t run away again_.

She swears she heard her phone buzz dozens of times, most likely polite inquiries about her whereabouts from Neal or Graham, but she couldn’t even focus her attention on anything beyond the way Killian was touching her and holding her and kissing her and making _love_ to her until the sun began to rise over the skyline.

She watches Killian for a moment longer, noticing how pleasantly juvenile he looks while he grumbles in his sleep, fidgeting with the covers, his hand squeezing hers tighter as if it were an involuntary reaction to her proximity.

She shuffles closer, pressing a kiss softly to his temple, then his nose, then his jawline, her hand wandering below the sheets, lower, lower until all she can feel is how hard he is. She hears a raspy rumble of a groan after he murmurs her name, and before she can respond, his arm wraps around her waist, swiftly flipping her over and pinning her against the bed with the weight of his body.

“Somebody’s frisky this morning,” he hums, voice thick with sleep as his blue eyes rake over her, his eyes deeper than any blue she could imagine.

His stare reminds her of soft promises spoken in the hush of an old shop, the boy who was nothing if not completely smitten with her. He’s changed since then, a hardened edge she can only attest to the fact that he lost her, but the young man who was so unbelievably infatuated with her still lives deep within him, his soul still the same kindred spirit she knew.

“I was just tired of watching you sleep.” Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, dragging her bottom lip under her teeth.

“My deepest apologies that my slumber is less than fascinating.” He leans down, capturing her lips in a tender kiss before rolling himself off of her, pulling her close to him so she can lie at his side, her head nestled against the rise and fall of his chest.

She reaches up to brush her thumb over the smudge of kohl underneath his eye. “You look different when you sleep. You look like... _you_.”

“I don’t follow,” he mutters against the crown of her head, lips kissing her hair.

“You look like the real you, the one I knew.” She lifts her head up, gazing at him with the bright jade glimmer that haunted his dreams for so long, that inspired the lyrics to almost every love song since his debut album. She bites her lip in contemplation and he raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

“No, tell me. What is it, love?”

“It’s just... I had a thought before I went to sleep.” Her eyes drift away from his, staring blankly at the bed sheets hanging dangerously low on his hips. “It’s not important. You wouldn’t care.”

His thumb brushes across her cheek. “Not true, Swan.”

She looks back at him, sudden déjà vu at his choice of words, echoing back to the whispered sentiments of a nineteen year old boy confessing his love to her. _Nobody ever loves me_ , she remembers stating (except that maybe he did, maybe he always did, and it hurts even more now that it took so long for them to find each other).

“Your first song. Neal made us listen to every single album of yours, and I remember hearing the lyrics,” she rambles on as his fingers tug at her hip, pulling her closer.

“Ah, you’re referring to _The Lady Who Dances Alone_.” He grins, shifting onto his side, and she can’t help but get lost in him as she feels her bare body line up with his. “There’s a reason for those words, love.”

“And to the lady who dances alone,” she begins, reciting the lyrics from memory.

“Know I’m still dancing beside you,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to her nose, lifting a hand to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I had hoped you would see it or hear it and remember who I was, remember those weeks we shared, maybe seek me out. I just... just wanted to find you.”

“I’m sorry,” is all she can muster, tears brimming as she tries to choke down the feelings bubbling to the surface.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry that I... that I... I left,” she strangles out through broken sobs, her breathing unexpectedly ragged.

He pulls her closer to him, enveloping her in the comfort of his embrace, whispering quiet shushes against the top of her head, placing soft kisses in her hair. “No, love. That’s not your fault.”

She shakes her head against him, warm tears flowing down her cheek and onto his chest as she tries to hold back, but she just can’t find the energy to place a wall between them. He doesn’t say much, just continues to hold her close to him, caressing her tenderly along the small of her back as her sobs turn into low whimpers.

“Do you know why I left?” she eventually murmurs almost inaudibly against his skin.

He simply nods, hand inching up to tangle in her hair. “Aye, foster care moved you.”

“No, the _real_ reason.” She pulls back and his expression looks intrigued and concerned simultaneously. “What did Mr. Gold tell you?”

Killian shakes his head. “Just said you up and left. Gave no contact information, didn’t even say goodbye.”

Emma lets out a small exhale. “Then he’s a good liar.”

He furrows his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Emma breathes deeply, snuggling closer to Killian. “The foster care people... when they came to get me, it wasn’t routine. I’d been moved before, but this time was different.”

“How so?” Killian purses his lips in a pensive manner. 

“This couple, they turned out to be criminals on the run,” she speaks quietly. “I’m not sure what they did, and I never heard from them after I was moved.”

“You were eighteen though?” He brushes the back of his hand against her cheek, pushing blonde strands out of her eyes. “You were a legal adult in the eyes of the law. Couldn’t you have just declared your independence or something like that?”

“A legal adult in high school doesn’t fit the criteria for independence, or at least that’s what I was told when they dropped me off at that boarding house. Didn’t even get a new family that time.” She looks on despondently, but then the emotion washes away from her face, almost as if a toughened wall clicks into place in front of it. “Anyway, when they came to get me, I asked if I could go to the shop, you know, to say goodbye to Mr. Gold... and _you_.”

His eyes widen. “You did that?”

“Yeah, but you weren’t there,” she responds wistfully, blankly staring at his bare torso. “So I told Mr. Gold to lie about me so you wouldn’t get caught up in everything and—”

“Left me the note in the _Rumours_ album,” he interrupts, soft smile creeping up on his lips as he tilts in to steal a quick kiss from her.

He untangles her from his arms, springing out of the bed to head towards the other side of the room to dig through the pockets of his guitar case.

“What are you doing?” she tries to ask calmly, but any agonizing feeling she’s experienced in the past few minutes turns into a school girl giggle at the sight of his very naked body bent over.

“Proving something to you, love.” He walks back towards the bed, worn legal paper in his hand. It’s folded and torn at the edges, and when she sits up to take it from him, he practically bounces on the balls of his feet in excitement.

She opens it, immediately sees her cursive handwriting, the saying of her bracelet written out and underlined for him to read, the large script of her impromptu signature at the bottom: _Your Swan Girl_. Even then, even when she wanted to keep his heart safe and away from the stupid chaos of her life, she still believed she was _his_.

He climbs back into the bed, lying down on top of the sheets, arm propped behind his head, the smuggest of grins rising at the corners of his lips. “You left quite an impression on me, Swan. Some would say you’ve been my muse all this time.”

Emma feels her heart flutter as she turns to look at him. “Killian, were you... are you still...”

There’s a slight tremble in his body as he averts his gaze from hers, the scrutiny in her expression making him second guess that he has been very much in _love_ with her since the day they met, despite the fact that this journey to find her has made him lose himself along the way, made him become some despicable person he can’t seem to recognize. “Ah, well, I...”

A smirk twists at her lips as she lowers herself on top of him, legs straddling his hips. “No sense denying it now. Just admit it, Jones.”

“Admit what?” He licks his lips before clicking his tongue, completely aware of the game she’s trying to play.

“You’ve been in love with me since you were nineteen.” She smiles hesitantly, fearful that she’s got it all wrong, that she’s just another girl for him, that all of this is in her head, that he’s not the same person (but he _is_ ).

He senses this, can see the wheels turning frantically in her mind, and his sultry expression softens momentarily. “You’ve got me, Swan,” he recites theatrically, fingers hugging the soft curve of her hips as she rolls back, finding him aroused and wanting her.

She tosses the note to the floor, crashing her lips down onto his, winding her arms around his neck, kissing him with every ounce of passion she can muster, and it creates a spark of hope in both of their hearts, the broken orphan and the lonely musician finally healing one another.

* * *

 _She’s just settled down in Los Angeles after landing a new job as a bodyguard for a company that protects actors, musicians, politicians and the like._ It’s a job _, she continues to remind herself, remembering the weeks without shelter and food and the basic necessities of life that she desperately refuses to return to._

 _She flips through the stations in the musty yellow bug she purchased from that sleazy dealer in Hollywood she always sees in the paper. The car practically screamed her name, and at only twenty-five with nothing besides a modest studio apartment on the outskirts of the city, the beat-up Volkswagen seemed like the most appropriate (and affordable) addition to items that were inherently_ hers _._

_She’s driving to work, set on meeting up with the two male guards accompanying her on their next case, protecting a California senator’s daughter on her trip to Vancouver, when a song hums through the car speakers and grabs her attention, a warm husky voice echoing through the small vehicle. Emma can’t help but bob her head along, the guitar licks slow but spirited as the male voice croons the final words of what sounds like a chorus._

And for the lady who dances alone  
Know I’m still dancing beside you

_She smiles at the lyrics, their sentiment temporarily sparking a hazy memory, but the station fizzles out as she enters the heart of Los Angeles. She never does catch the singer’s name..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this, and the lovely tumblr folks who gave me the prompt! Hope you enjoyed it! :)


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